All In/This Just In

Last night, I wasted a little time playing online poker. I think I made (fake) money although for much of the evening, it looked like I'd end the night at a loss. Of course, when I win, I wish it wasn't just imaginary, electronic chips. I wish I could cash those chips in somewhere and pay off a debt or two. And sometimes, I feel the slightest temptation to risk real money and see if I couldn't turn a small sum into a large one. And sometimes, I find myself fantasizing about that possibility: no more car payments, no more house payments, no more wondering when or from where the next check will come. After all, the key to winning at poker is remarkably simple: minimize your losses when you're going to lose and maximize your profits when you're going to win. The art is in knowing the difference--or rather, in approximating that knowledge as closely as possible.

Unfortunately, if it were real money, the players sitting across from me (or an icon of myself) would play better. They wouldn't bluff out of position just for the hell of it. They wouldn't go all in because they think I might be bluffing. They would know the math inside and out, and they would know the intricacies of this seemingly simple game more deeply and more thoroughly than I do.

But why mention poker here? In a blog ostensibly about the state of the economy? Ostensibly about my family? Even though poker does have gross potential for an allegorical comparison to the way in which our nation's economy is run (I'll let you point out the hustlers, the marks, the sharks, the fish), I play simply for the absorption it offers, the illusion of accomplishment, and the chance not to think about my life for a little while.

Last night, however, a woman somewhere in California, playing at the same (virtual) table announced (through the chat feature) that she'd just been laid off form her job of twenty-odd years. Luckily, her husband remains employed as a firefighter (for now). I watched as friends comforted her, and one other woman launched into a tirade aimed squarely at blood-sucking credit card companies. I didn't know either of those women--or anyone at the table for that matter. So, what was I to say?

Nice hand. It could be worse (trust me).

Eventually, both women migrated to a table with higher stakes, while I stayed behind, tossing good (fake) money after bad, wondering what to do next. Contemplating how to tell you about this stranger who joined the statistics yesterday, how to explain to you what "I" means here, what "we" and "our" entail.

The statistics keep coming. Less bad sounds pretty good. Or not.

So, the cards are down. What next? You think you'll win? You think you'll lose? Maybe break even? Are you sure?

Some of us are just waiting for the right cards, waiting for a chance to play.

Tomorrow

At the risk of meandering into a land bristling with cliche, unemployment, in oh so many was is the sort of setback that can only be overcome with luck or--as it must be for most of us these days--a near avalanche of Annie-like optimism.

Of course, even though someone who is unemployed may frequently feel as if they're being treated like a child, I'm no orphan. Still, think about it: "It's a hard-knock life / for us..." speaks to me in ways it hasn't previously, and more, I'm reminded that (oddly) one of my favorite songs originated in what may very well be the most saccharine narrative of the American Dream ever told.

More, think about "Tomorrow". Is it only a day away or always a day away? Regardless, for the roughly ten percent of Americans who are out of work, that tomorrow must be the first thing we think about in the morning and the last thought that flits across our minds before the oh-so-welcome respite of sleep.

Oh where, oh where is my Daddy Warbucks? Or my FDR? (It's ok; you can laugh).

So how the ______ does one maintain that optimism? Particularly, if like me, you have a more critical slant of mind?

There are myriad answers to those questions, ranging from you don't to it's my nature to look on the bright side of the half-full glass.

For me, I've spent the last week or so working on my own personal website, making vaguely elaborate plans to launch (or is it relaunch?) a more profitable freelance writing career. More, I've been to the library and checked out the sorts of job hunting and career advice books I'd likely shun if the economy were better. I've even contemplated the counterintuitive strategy of applying for jobs as a car salesman. And, more frequently, I take naps.

There is, of course, a horrible sense of irony if you consider the number of people who, suddenly, seem to have time. Time, that most precious of commodities, is the one thing many of us now seem to have in abundance. But how do we use it? How can we, most effectively, enjoy those afternoons when most of the world is at work?

Can we?

The answer, I suppose, depends upon the health of your savings, your credit lines, your chosen (or stumbled upon) career. The answer, I suppose, depends upon how you see your prospects for your own future and how quickly you can erase (or learn from) the application denied or the application with no response. The answer, I suppose, is psychological. For each of the 13.7 million people (as of April) who are unemployed in the United States alone, the shape of that time must differ in subtle ways.

Yet, all of us in that unfortunate category must somehow and someway maintain our own faith in ourselves. We must, if need be, invent it from nothing and praise the small gifts--like the budding blooms of peonies near a cracked sidewalk or the laughter of a child walking home from school down those same sidewalks or the smallest note of encouragement from someone we love--lest we risk losing our ability to imagine that tomorrow.

Numbers

Last Wednesday, I posted my resume on craigslist. I've gotten six email responses. All scams.

Ruby's Story

This is Ruby. She's the third of the three dogs who complicate our lives with love (and filth). For the most part, she's a marvelous dog; her devotion to me, it seems, could serve as the very model of Christian fidelity.

Ruby came to live with us and our other two dogs about a year ago. My wife and I had gone to the local PetSmart one Saturday in search of some treat or other and stumbled into one of those afternoons when a local shelter had filled the aisles with the crates of adoptable dogs.

We had to look.

On first seeing my wife, that beagle--known to the shelter volunteers as "Teacup Beagle"--walked over to my wife and nuzzled against her lap. Teacup Beagle looked up, with tear-stained eyes, at my wife and leaned into her legs as if those legs were a stand of trees behind which the beagle could hide. Then, Teacup Beagle's ears were tattered with wear. Her ribs protruded through her pelt around her thin belly. When she panted, her tongue dangled over worn-down teeth. And she was only two years old.

We adopted her on the spot and took her home that afternoon.

I'd like to end the story here, with us carrying the beagle home, rechristening her "Ruby", and introducing her to our other two dogs who immediately adored her. I'd like to tell you that the newly named Ruby integrated seamlessly into our lives, slept beside us, walked with us, and jaunted about the minor expanse of our slanted backyard with the other household canines.

But, that's not what happened. Over the next few weeks, we discovered more and more about that weather-worn dog we'd brought into our midst. She turned over the kitchen trashcan. Several times. She was food possessive, snarling as if possessed by a tiny red eyed demon. She never, it seemed, listened. And worse, she had no fear. Regardless of how much my booming voice might have rattled the ceiling fans, Ruby was unperturbed.

You see, she'd been a stray. She'd survived on streets somewhere in Northern Kentucky by rooting through the refuse people had left behind. No voice could frighten her away from a few chicken bones or a scrap of cheeseburger. No length of time in her crate could keep her from snapping at dog treats given to the other dogs or clambering up toward the kitchen table as my wife and I attempted to eat dinner. She was surviving--just as she had for who knows how long.

It took months, including an awful afternoon when she scaled a nearby fence and vanished like a canine Houdini before she felt safe, before she began to look at my wife and me not as potential marks, but as providers, as people who could keep her fed and safe, as a sort of family. She, slowly, became part of the family, part of the pack and began hunting the small moles and birds that wandered into our yard. She slowly began to prance about the backyard, playing with me and the other two dogs.

Her belly slowly thickened with regular meals and the edges of ears grew smooth as any other beagle's. She still has those teeth though, and every once in a while, we see flashes of her past and can imagine her sniffing down alleys, scouring one dumpster or another. But for the most part, she's just Ruby. We try to take care of her. We adore her.

Just last week, we took her to the vet for her annual checkup and shots. No more fleas. No more issues with a long-standing eye infection--just the inevitable cost of keeping her healthy: shots for bordatella, rabies, parvo, etc.

And soon, we may not be able to afford even those small measures. Soon, there may be no sloped yard in which Ruby can gallivant with the other dogs as the May sun glows down on the opening peonies and thickening clover. Soon, there may be no fences from which to escape. And that, I suppose, is one of the many hidden costs of corporate downsizing, and one of the primary reasons I desperately want my wife and I to find employment enough to keep this rickety house.

What's the Over Under?

Just this week, my wife paid bills...just as we've done regularly--very,very seldom missing a payment--since the day our finances joined forces in that thing called marriage.

But this week is different. This week, we're looking into the future, and the future is indeterminate. We both imagine one call, or another, coming like a miracle. We both imagine the alternative, where we clean out our house and relocate our mounds of belongings into a much smaller home or apartment that's hopefully big enough to keep all three of our beloved (and tiny) dogs.

We're both college graduates. Mid-career professionals. Vaguely talented. Upstanding citizens who didn't make poor choices on our mortgage, our car, etc. We didn't buy a house we couldn't afford. We both, recently, had very good jobs (though my wife's was significantly better in terms of compensation). Yet, now our savings has dwindled. Now, we have a month of hope.

Doubtless, we're not alone. We've survived this long without contemplating bankruptcy or foreclosure--while others haven't.

Maybe you've heard countless stories like this already. Maybe you haven't. My goal here is to tell you our story without succumbing to the aura of taboo that surrounds discussions of one's own money, and to make it beautiful.

Maybe this blog will take you somewhere. Maybe it will take me somewhere. Maybe I can earn enough here for an occasional meal at McDonald's. Because, suddenly, such small comforts--brutal as they may be on our bodies--sing to me like siren song. A small fry. A soda. Forbidden fruit.

Maybe this blog, like much of our lives, is just an errant get rich (ahem...solvent) quick scheme. I'll let you decide.

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